


Cottage by the Copse

by mmmuse



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-21 11:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6050095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmmuse/pseuds/mmmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Ross Poldark's sexual awakening.</p><p>Prompted from a conversation started by @osmarinamo on tumblr: This morning I was enjoying @rainpuddle13’s fanfic Convergence and got to thinking: how did Ross become so sexually knowledgeable? Would love someone to write about Ross’ own growth as a sexual being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Setting the Stage

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely @rainpuddle13 herself. Many thanks to @genie1960, @rainpuddle13, @vickysnest, @alicebhatt,@mayyourbeardnevergrowthin, @shareinanadventure, @thistle-brook,@audleystreet, @shiparker, @annaania01, @goodgirlwhoshopeful. Their participation in the conversation helped me conceive of the storyline.

December 1778

“By damn, boy, it is time to go!” Ross jolted at the bellow coming from downstairs and checked his stock in the cracked mirror over the hearth one last time. His father was taking him out that evening, but had not revealed the purpose for the outing. All he’d been told was to wash, dress and be ready to ride by seven o’clock. He’d much rather be out with his friends the Daniel brothers and Zacky Martin, but he’d sensed defying this summons from his father would be a slight that wouldn’t be forgiven.

The eyes that stared back at him were dark and wary in a face that had just lost the last of the boyish curves of youth. His Adam’s apple still bobbed gawkily in a neck too long for his broad shoulders. He clubbed his long black hair at the nape of his neck, placed the new tricorn hat he’d received for Christmas low across his brow and headed for the stairs. He jumped the last few to the hall below, coming up short when he nearly ran into his father. Joshua Poldark was a robust man in his mid-fifties. He’d cut a fine figure in his youth, but now was going to seed, his waist just starting to turn to fat. He had a full head of sandy blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard and moustache that framed a wide, sensual mouth. Eyes of a steely gray sat beneath a strong brow.

“Taking your own sweet time about it, aren’t you, boy?” Joshua muttered as he scraped ash from his pipe with a nail.

“Sorry, Father,” Ross muttered, not feeling sorry for it at all, if the truth were to be told. “We didn’t finish the repairs to the plow until late.”

His father waved his hand dismissively and headed towards the door. “That’s unimportant. But we cannot be late this evening.”

“Where are we going?” Ross asked, slipping on his great coat and following his father through the open door to the backyard.

“Riding about five miles east,” Joshua said. “Jud will bring the horses. Time to go.”

Forty minutes later, they turned their horses onto a narrow lane towards a modest home near the edge of a copse of trees. Born and raised in Cornwall, Ross was familiar with most of the countryside that lie within fifteen miles of Nampara. He found he was unacquainted with this property. He nudged his horse, Morgan, up next to his father. “Where are we, sir?”

Joshua turned to his son and motioned for him to dismount. They walked the horses up to the fence and tied them fast. “You’ve turned eighteen, Ross.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Been getting yourself into a bit a trouble in town lately, yes?”

Ross felt his cheek heat. “Naught but a bit of cards,” he said petulantly.

“And I heard you were chasing some kitchen wench from over at Bodrugan’s,” he interrupted.

Ross stopped. “It weren’t nothing, Father,” he stammered. “Just a kiss or two.”

“If it _had_ been more I would have taken the horsewhip to you, boy,” he growled, fixing Ross with a dark glare. “No son of mine is going to have bastards all over the county.”

 _You’re one to talk_ , Ross thought to himself. He knew full well the reputation his father had around the county. It was a miracle _he_ didn’t have half-siblings from here to Penzance. His father resumed his walk towards the house, his long strides making short work of the distance, Ross following behind. “I still don’t understand what that has to do with our being here.”

They reached the door and his father turned to face him. “If you are wanting more experience with women, son, you don’t seek out scullery maids. You go to someone with some experience.”

Ross swallowed, the saliva in his mouth suddenly dried up.

“Marjorie is a widow,” Joshua said matter-of-factly, filling his pipe. “Works as a seamstress for several of the ladies in the district. I’ve found her to be… rather accommodating in the past.” He looked at Ross, unblinking and direct. “She’s been to the house a time or two, to work on some clothes. The last time she was there I noticed you staring at her, off and on.” He lit his pipe and drew in the fragrant smoke then knocked on the door. “I recognized the look, have had it myself occasionally. It’s time for you to know, boy.”

Ross felt his cock twitch, despite his horror. Surely his father didn’t mean for him to… but _of course_ that’s what his father meant for him to do here. Take up with one of his _own_ women to rid his son of his virginity. The supper he’d finished an hour ago moved uncomfortably in his gut at the prospect at the same time blood rushed to his loins. He opened his mouth to object a second too late. The light from within bathed them both and silhouetted the woman who stood on the threshold.

“Joshua,” the woman’s honeyed voice drawled, “do come in.”


	2. Marjorie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross is introduced to Marjorie Trengrouse.
> 
> Prompted from a conversation started by @osmarinamo on tumblr: This morning I was enjoying @rainpuddle13’s fanfic Convergence and got to thinking: how did Ross become so sexually knowledgeable? Would love someone to write about Ross’ own growth as a sexual being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely @rainpuddle13 herself. Many thanks to @genie1960, @rainpuddle13, @vickysnest, @alicebhatt,@mayyourbeardnevergrowthin, @shareinanadventure, @thistle-brook,@audleystreet, @shiparker, @annaania01, @goodgirlwhoshopeful. Their participation in the conversation helped me conceive of the storyline.

Marjorie Trengrouse poured a two glasses of port for her guests and turned to face them. She’d moved to the district with her husband, Roger, five years before, from London. He’d had consumption and it was thought the fresh sea air would do him good. Unfortunately, he’d only survived six months before he’d been taken by the morbid sore throat. He left Marjorie a widow with a modest inheritance at the age of thirty.

She was very careful with her money, doing whatever she could to keep the exact nature of her finances a secret, lest she find herself besieged by men to claim it. Which was not to say that was all there was to draw men into her sphere. She was petite, with a black haired, fair skinned beauty that attracted much attention whenever she’d needed to go into town. The frankness of her blue-eyed gaze discomfited women and attracted men.

The other thing she inherited from her dearly departed husband was a rapacious appetite for sex. She took lovers, discretely of course, when the mood struck her. She preferred men in their forties or fifties, with the expectation that the gentleman in question knew a thing or two about the ways of lovemaking so as to make the experience a pleasurable one for both of them. Marjorie had also never been much interested in deflowering young men. The two occasions where she’d been drawn to ignore her preferences had been opportunities where the young men in question had been truly spectacular to look upon, only to prove less than satisfactory once their clothes were off. So she continued to focus on experienced men of a certain age whom she knew she could manage.

She’d met Joshua Poldark three years ago at Trenwith one day, attending to Miss Verity’s gowns. She’d enjoyed his company, quite thoroughly, for three months before they mutually agreed they were better suited as friends. It was following that decision that she found herself at Nampara and had her first encounter with his son.

One late afternoon in June 1776, Marjorie had been at Nampara working on shirts she’d agreed to mend for Joshua when she’d first seen his son. The young man had been out in the backyard, working to drive the cattle in from the fields. His hair was damp with sweat, and shone like the wing of a blackbird, the long club of hair at his nape thick and wavy. Tall and lanky, he was well on his way to filling out his frame. As attractive as he was as a boy on the verge of manhood could be, she could see the potential he carried for raw, animal magnetism.

She recalled the first time he’d noticed her. It was almost the end of September 1777, and she’d stopped by Nampara to drop off some shirts she’d sewn for Joshua when Ross had come in. He’d been fishing and carried a line of pilchards and slammed into the house with all the enthusiasm of youth. He’d been brought up short by her presence in the parlour and had stared at her for several seconds before clearing his throat to speak.

_“Good afternoon, Mistress…”_

_“Trengrouse,” she announced, holding out her hand. He paused a moment before brushing his hand against his disreputable breeches and took hold of her fingers._

_“Your servant, Mistress Trengrouse,” he drawled, his voice already a warm baritone similar to his father’s. He released her fingers a beat or two longer than would have been appropriate in polite society. “Have you been offered refreshment?”_

_She nodded._ Well mannered _, she thought to herself,_ but with an edge of rebellion not too far under the surface _. He’d filled out even more in the year that had passed since she last saw him, and the promise of the magnetism she’d noticed that day had almost come to fruition. “I’ve come to deliver some shirts your father commissioned from me.” She watched as his eyes assessed her, forming an opinion about her within seconds._ So the boy was aware of his father’s reputation and assumed I was one of the many mistresses, _she mused to herself._ Not too far from the truth. _“Your maid, Prudie, didn’t know how long he would be away.”_

_Ross walked to the kitchen and hung the line of fish on a hook. “He’s down at the mine, but should return shortly.” He leaned against the parlour table, the corner of his mouth curling up in a smile. “Would you care to wait?”_

_She noticed the dark hair curling at the open collar of his shirt and felt a shiver run down her spine. She smiled, her gaze lingering a moment at his throat before returning to meet his. She shook her head. “No, that is quite all right…Ross, is it?”_

_He swallowed, nodding. “Yes,” he said, the timbre of his voice had dipped. The hands resting on either side of his hips gripped the edge of the table._

_She blinked, lowered her lashes to hide the discrete glance she’d made at his crotch, satisfied to know he’d not been disaffected by her presence. She smiled, held his gaze. “Please let him know I was here and tell him thank you for the work. It was most appreciated.”_

_He nodded his head. She pulled on her gloves. He leapt away from the table and went to fetch her cloak and riding crop. She turned, allowing him to place the cloak around her shoulders. She heard him take a deep breath as he stood close enough to smell her perfume. She turned, smiling up into his eyes as she slid the riding crop from his fingertips. “Until next time, Master Poldark.”_

_When she next saw Joshua, at the fall assembly, he asked her if she would ever consider a dalliance with his son. She’d laughed, brushing his cheek with her fan. “What’s good enough for the father?”_

_He shook his head. “The boy will wind up doing something to ruin his life if something isn’t done soon. Smuggling? Gambling? Or getting some serving girl in trouble.” He looked her. “You would keep him from the latter.”_

_Marjorie sipped her punch and curtseyed to Joshua. “If you still find yourself in need of my assistance, bring him to me after he’s turned eighteen and we shall see.”_

That had been a year ago and she was very happy at what she saw. Marjorie handed the port to Joshua, then Ross. “It is good to see you again, Master Poldark.”


	3. You consider me a young apprentice....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross and Marjorie become better acquainted.
> 
> Prompted from a conversation started by @osmarinamo on tumblr: This morning I was enjoying @rainpuddle13’s fanfic Convergence and got to thinking: how did Ross become so sexually knowledgeable? Would love someone to write about Ross’ own growth as a sexual being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely @rainpuddle13 herself. Many thanks to @genie1960, @rainpuddle13, @vickysnest, @alicebhatt,@mayyourbeardnevergrowthin, @shareinanadventure, @thistle-brook,@audleystreet, @shiparker, @annaania01, @goodgirlwhoshopeful. Their participation in the conversation helped me conceive of the storyline.

Ross accepted a second glass of port and swallowed, hard. The name Marjorie had meant nothing to him when he father mentioned it before he’d knocked on the door. When he mentioned her occupation, he’d stirred at the memory from more than a year ago. And when the door had opened, he’d found it hard to breathe. Mistress Trengrouse.

His father had accepted the first glass of port and engaged her in conversation for only a few moments before he’d set the glass down and bowed over her hand. He’d looked at his son and simply said he would see him in the morning before he turned on his heel and walked out of the room. It had taken everything with Ross not to put his own glass down and run after him.

Mistress Trengrouse had figured prominently in the sweat-filled, fevered dreams that had haunted him for weeks after they’d met in the Nampara kitchen the autumn of 1777. While he and his friends tormented the local village girls for brief kisses and furtive fondles, he would find himself rigid with need whenever he’d thought of her black hair, her smooth, cream skin and eyes the color of the summer sky.

Those same eyes watched him now, as frank as they had been before as they exchanged the surface pleasantries that passed for mannerly conversation among members of society. And while he hadn’t recognized what she’d been doing then, he had since seen similar enough glances from other women in the area, usually hidden behind upturned fans or from over their shoulders. Never as open as Mistress Trengrouse presented to him now.

“It has been a while since we were last acquainted, isn’t that correct, Master Poldark?” she said.

He nodded, clearing his throat and praying his voice would not crack. “Yes, quite a while,” he acknowledged softly, pleased at how calm he sounded.

She smiled. “Tell me, are you aware of why your father has brought you here, Ross?” She paused, sitting down on the settee. “I may call you Ross, yes?”

“Yes,” he agreed. “May I ask what I am permitted to call you, mistress?”

“You may call me Marjorie, Ross,” she offered, gesturing to the seat next to her. She wore midnight blue silk, well fitted to her petite frame. Her hair was expertly dressed and she wore a black velvet ribbon around her slender neck. Her pulse beat strong against the ribbon and he found the rhythm of its movement hypnotic.

He walked over and sat, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from wincing. His cock screamed against the tightness of his breeches. He willed himself to meet her gaze, even if it killed him. “My father wishes for me to become a man,” he said, hoping his voice had sounded confident and self-assured.

She arched a sleek, black brow at him. “And what do you think makes a man a man, Ross?” She sipped her port and looked at him with those disconcerting blue eyes.

He frowned. “Losing one’s virginity, for starters,” he stated baldly.

“‘For starters,’” she repeated, leaning forward and peering up at him. “It is interesting you should put it in that particular way, Ross.” She finished her port and set the glass on the table to her right. “Losing one’s virginity is a good place for one to _start_.” She moved closer to him, placed a hand on his knee. His own glass of port bobbled a moment. “It is _not_ where one finishes.” She dipped her finger into his glass and raised it to her lips. Ross’s mouth went dry as her finger reached her lips, the tip of her small pink tongue capturing a drop of the ruby red liquid. She smiled. “More port?”

He shook his head, tossing back what was left in his glass and set it down on the table to his left. _God, how do I talk to someone like this_ , he asked himself as nerves chewed through his insides. His legs alternated from feeling as heavy as lead and liquid as water. He took a chance and rose to his feet, praying they were more of the former and paced over to the sideboard. He looked at her, the distance from her helping to clear his mind from the thoughts her nearness aroused in him.

 _I must know_ , he thought to himself _. I must know if she sees this as some kind of game._ A game of his father’s making, which would not surprise him. In addition, he must know if what he thought was to happen that night would make him _share_ in what was his father’s, for no matter how beautiful and alluring Marjorie was, the thought of sharing a mistress with his father made him feel sick. He was _not_ his father. Never wanted to be.

To know these things would require him to be very direct, more confident than he truly felt in the moment. He straightened and turned to look at her. “I-I must ask you a question,” he stammered, and he damned himself for the nerves. “Before this goes any farther.” She nodded. “What are you to my father?”

She looked down at her hands for a moment before rising from the settee and joining him where he stood. She took his large hands in hers – the touch of her skin against his redoubling the tightness in his groin – and raised her eyes to meet his. “I will make you this promise, Ross, and will demand the same from you, before this goes any farther. From this moment on, I will tell you the absolute truth. About myself. About my expectations. About what I want and what I need. It is the only way I will consent to this. Are we agreed?”

His heart thundered in his chest, at this woman’s beauty, her candor, her nearness. He nodded. “Agreed.”

She squeezed his hands, leaned forward, rising on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his. He gasped, his hands squeezing hers reflexively before he leaned back to look at her mouth. He wanted to kiss her, so badly, to taste the port they’d shared on her tongue. But he needed to know. “My question, Marjorie? What are you to my father?”

She invited him to return to the settee with her, carrying the decanter and setting it down within reach. Once seated, she turned to face him. “Your father and I are merely friends, Ross. It is not all we have been, but that is all we are now and will be. We met three years ago and were lovers for a brief period of time. We have not been intimate in two-and-a-half years, long before I considered becoming intimate with you.” She nodded towards the decanter, a silent offer for another glass. He handed her his glass. She poured wine in both glasses and offered it to him. “Does what I have said about my relationship with your father answer your question?”

He nodded, taking another sip for confidence. “When did you first consider becoming intimate with m-me,” he asked, the nerves dancing along his spine still making him stumble over the last word.

“The day I met you in your kitchen,” she said with a smile. “Over a year ago, I believe?”

He’d gone out to the barn and masturbated after she’d left that day, the smell of her perfume still in his nostrils. The memory made him unable to conceal his discomfort and he shifted in his seat. She smiled, her gaze flickering down towards his lap before returning to his. He felt a frisson of anger. He needed to know how much of a pawn he was being in his father’s plan. “Has this been something the two of you planned?” His voice sounded surer of itself, as if the jolt of temper had given him the confidence he’d sought in the wine.

“It was not as calculated as what you may think, Ross,” she murmured, sipping her wine. “He mentioned you were curious, and that curiosity might get you into a situation you would not be prepared to deal with. Such as pregnancy or the pox.”

Ross flushed, as the risks and realities of the thing were brought to light. He was not used to having conversations like this with anyone, let alone a beautiful woman who had all but been arranged for him. “And if this should go any farther, how can I be certain—”

“—There will be no pregnancy or, in your case, that you won’t catch the pox from me?” she interrupted. A blush stained her cheeks and her eyes flashed with temper.

Ross was mortified. He’d all but accused her of being a common, pox-ridden whore. “I-I am so—”

“Don’t apologize, Ross,” she stated, setting her glass down, the wine unfinished. “Your questions were legitimate ones. And they are ones you should be prepared to ask yourself of any other woman with whom you intend to be intimate.” She smiled at him. “Never assume, Ross. You are a handsome young man. There will be women who will want you for your money, for what you can give them by way of position within society. Be alert and ask questions if you must.” She took a deep breath. “To answer your questions, I am barren, Ross, so there is no need to concern yourself with pregnancy. As for the pox, I am well aware of the signs and symptoms to look for and am very, very discriminating with whom I choose to form an liaison.”

He swallowed and set his glass down. He couldn’t help but to be flattered by her compliment, but remained uncertain about having put her through the discomfort of sharing these things with him. “I’m sorry about…that you cannot bear children,” he said, and meant it.

She gave a light shrug. “It is what it is.”

“Have you ever done this before?” he asked, only to realize how stupid his question must have sounded. “I mean, with someone who has never…”

“Yes, Ross.” She touched his hand. “Twice before.” Her thumb brushed the back of his wrist, raising the hairs along the back of his arm. “So, does this mean that this will go farther, Ross?” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, grown dark despite the brightness of the candlelight.

Decision made, he nodded, leaned towards her and kissed her.


	4. I will listen hard to your tuition....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lesson Number One begins.
> 
> Prompted from a conversation started by @osmarinamo on tumblr: This morning I was enjoying @rainpuddle13’s fanfic Convergence and got to thinking: how did Ross become so sexually knowledgeable? Would love someone to write about Ross’ own growth as a sexual being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely @rainpuddle13 herself. Many thanks to @genie1960, @rainpuddle13, @vickysnest, @alicebhatt,@mayyourbeardnevergrowthin, @shareinanadventure, @thistle-brook,@audleystreet, @shiparker, @annaania01, @goodgirlwhoshopeful. Their participation in the conversation helped me conceive of the storyline.

His lips were inexpert, but warm and full against hers. She leaned into the kiss, using her mouth to show him how to use his own. He was a quick study, she thought to herself as he reached for her, to pull her close without breaking their kiss. And then she stopped thinking at all. He stood, bringing her up from the settee, drawing her tight against him. He was tall, and she’d had to stand on tiptoe to respond to the urgency of his lips against hers. Her hands clutched his shoulders as the breath from his nostrils whistled past her cheek and ear.

She drew back slightly, opening her eyes to take in the trembling urgency still marking his face. “Did I do something wrong?” he beseeched.

“No,” she murmured, surprised to hear a tremor in her own voice. “Just relax, Ross. Follow my lead, yes?” she asked, arching a brow. He nodded, his eagerness making her laugh softly before she rose up to sample his mouth. She tasted him as if he were a ripened peach, capturing his lower lip between her own, brushing her tongue against it and reveling in the moan of appreciation that came from deep in his chest, the tightening of his arms around her waist. He followed suit, and before long they were feasting on one another’s open mouths, tongues caressing and seeking, savouring and tasting the port they’d shared.

She drew back again, dizzy from the wine and this young man who shook in her arms. She looked up at his face and saw desire blazing in his eyes, nearly black with want. His lips were bruised and she found all she wanted to do was taste him yet again. She banked her own desires to smile up at him. “We will be more comfortable in the bedroom, Ross,” she said, her voice husky. “Shall we proceed?”

He nodded, blinking slowly as if he were trying to rouse the thinking part of himself from its slumber. He seemed to realize this for he blushed crimson and found his voice. “Yes, Marjorie.” Dark, resonant, she felt the effects of his voice along her spine, her nipples and her sex. She nodded, then walked around the room to put out the candles, her eyes never leaving his. She left one burning, picking it up and extended her hand towards him. He moved towards her, took it in his own and they walked up the stairs.

She pushed open the door at the front of the landing, revealing the master chamber. She’d had it redecorated after her husband’s death, choosing bright fabrics in yellow and cream to balance the dark furnishings. As a result, the room had strength along with its feminine appeal. “May I ask you to start a fire, Ross?” she asked as she crossed the room to light the candelabra nearest the bed.

“Yes, of course,” he said, starting a bit. He surged to his feet and removed his coat before moving towards the hearth. He seemed to be glad for something to do, which is what she asked him when she finished with the candles. His cheeks turned quite ruddy by the firelight. “I suppose I was, Marjorie.” He paused, before looking down at her. “I feel…”

“Yes?” she asked, curious.

“I think I find myself a bit in awe at your sense of calm,” he said before looking at the fire. “I could find myself scarcely able to breathe let alone ask me for my opinion on where we should go next.”

She laughed and reached out a hand to brush his cheek. “It’s all a matter of experience, Ross. What is happening to you, passion and desire – unrestricted by all of the rules of propriety if you will – is outside of your current span of knowledge. As your experience with women grows, you will discover the means by which you can harness the desire and passion the mere suggestion can instill, allow it to build within you until you are prepared to unleash it.” Her hand drifted down his chest, over the buttons of his waistcoat. “Tonight, we’ll focus on allowing you experience it as freely as possible so that you will know the edges of it. And,” she continued, her fingers undoing buttons in their wake, “begin to hone the raw edges of it to the point where it is in your control.”

She watched the fall and rise of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. She reached the last button and pushed it off of his shoulders. She took two steps back and looked him up and down. _He was, indeed, a lovely specimen of man_ , she thought to herself. By the firelight, his face appeared to be made of all hard edges, but she knew better. She’d felt it under her hands, how strong and malleable it was. The hard, manual nature of his work had strengthened the lean muscle she’d seen as early as two years before. She knew him to be studying her similarly and smiled, taking a step back from him, turning slowly on the spot before sinking into a deep curtsey before him. “Do you like what you see, Master Ross?”

He swallowed again. “Yes,” he rasped. She wondered what the use of that title had done to him. She’d known what it had done to her in saying it, but that was a conversation for another time. “Very much, Mistress Marjorie.”

Oh. Her breath caught in her throat. A very quick learner.

She held her own gaze from lowering to what she most cared to investigate, anticipation welling between her thighs at the prospect. “What would you like to do next, sir?” she asked, her fingers trailing along the bed post.

He blinked slowly. “I would like to kiss you again,” he whispered.

“To kiss me?” she crooned. “Is that all, sir?”

“No,” he blurted out, taking a step towards her. She raised her eyebrows at him and he looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know what to say!”

“Yes, you do, sir,” she said, softly. “Your years of mannerly training are keeping you from saying what it is you want. But I’ve told you, here in this room there are no rules of propriety. You may speak your mind, Ross,” she said, raising her hand to remove a pin from her hair. A glistening black curl cascaded down her neck, spiraling past her breast. “Tell me what you would like to do next, sir. You will be rewarded a pin for each answer given. I’ll let you have this one for free,” she said, placing the pin on the side table next to the bed. “The rest will cost you.”

She could see the internal struggle taking place within him, his expressive eyes pleading with her. She shrugged her shoulders and began to turn from him. “I wish to touch your breasts,” the voice behind her croaked. She turned back to see he’d taken another step towards her. She allowed her eyes to drop towards his groin and her mouth watered. The shape and size of him was easily discernable against the fawn colored breeches, the fabric caressing him much as she wished her mouth had been.

He lowered his hand to shield himself, and she shook her head. “No, dear Ross. There is no shame here. None to be had between us. Besides,” she said, removing another pin from her hair, “I should very much like to touch your cock.”

He groaned aloud, lowering his hand to his crotch and pressing against it, hard. “Jesus,” he gasped, the palm of his hand rubbing along the length of his cock. “Marjorie, please.”

She walked over to him, brushing his hand away and replacing it with hers. He shuddered, knees nearly buckling. She guided him to the sofa. He collapsed, wincing audibly at the constriction in his breeches. “Has anyone ever touched you as I have just now, Ross?” she asked softly, sitting with her hip against his.

“N-no, M-marjorie,” he stammered, gasping for air.

“I imagine you have touched yourself a number of times, yes, Ross?” He nodded, eyes shut tight as she ran the tip of her fingernail along his length. “Have you ever touched yourself while thinking of me?” He nodded, his eyes open now, fixed on hers. “Tell me.”

“When we met last year,” he admitted, groaning when she moved her hand up to the waistband of his breeches. She held her hand away from him, his hips moving of their own accord, as she opened first one button, then the second.

“How soon?” she asked, moving to the third button and flicking it open with her thumb.

“Right away,” he moaned, twisting his hips as she folded down the front placket of the breeches and exposed his cock to her gaze. He was beautifully formed, thick and heavy, the broad glans slipped free of its foreskin. It glistened with moisture that seeped from the slit at its crest, and it made Marjorie long to taste him. But that would need to wait for another time.

“Was it good?” she asked, her heart pounding. She pressed her knees together under her skirts while her index finger traced the line of crisp black hair running down from his chest to the heavy thatch surrounding his cock.

His eyes were fixed on her face, his mouth open, chest heaving. “Yes. So good.”

“Not as good as this,” she crooned, and took him in her hand.


	5. You will see it come to its fruition....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lesson one concludes, and lesson two begins....
> 
> Prompted from a conversation started by @osmarinamo on tumblr: This morning I was enjoying @rainpuddle13’s fanfic Convergence and got to thinking: how did Ross become so sexually knowledgeable? Would love someone to write about Ross’ own growth as a sexual being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely @rainpuddle13 herself. Many thanks to @genie1960, @rainpuddle13, @vickysnest, @alicebhatt,@mayyourbeardnevergrowthin, @shareinanadventure, @thistle-brook,@audleystreet, @shiparker, @annaania01, @goodgirlwhoshopeful. Their participation in the conversation helped me conceive of the storyline.

His vision narrowed the instant her hand closed around him firmly, warm and dry against his skin. He saw only her face, blue eyes blazing before him. A shimmer along his lower back and inside of his thighs and he came.

He slammed his eyes shut, lids squeezed tight enough for tiny pinpricks of light to dance behind them. “Please… please…” he screamed in ecstasy, not caring who heard it. He gasped and moaned, thrusting into her hand as she stroked him, searing pulses of semen leaving his body at force. He was insensible, for how long he did not know. In time, he became cognizant of things: how the flesh of his scrotum; wedged tight between his thighs, relaxed. The skin of his penis felt inflamed, oversensitive. He could feel her hand cupping his cock loosely and he was grateful for the tenderness she showed. He winced despite her care, his heart still pounding within his breast and opened his eyes.

Marjorie sat next to him, her right arm around his shoulders, fingers playing with his hair. He closed his eyes at the sensation of her nails against his scalp, making his nipples tighten unexpectedly. He looked at her face, flushed pink, her nostrils flared. Feelings of shame began to well up within him and he lowered his chin. He’d lost control.

Her hand left his scalp and cool fingertips touched his cheek, lifting his head to stare at him. “No shame, remember, Ross?” she breathed softly.

“But I…” he gulped, trailing off, his face burning hot.

“Ross, this is just the first of many encounters you and I will share tonight,” she assured him, her finger caressing the outer edge of his ear before slipping along the back collar of his shirt. “I pushed you this evening. I knew it would be very difficult for you to maintain control, and I did it for a reason.” She smiled. “Better here than when we are there, wouldn’t you say?” She nodded in the direction of the bed.

Ross swallowed. She had a point. How mortified would he have been if he’d climaxed before he’d had a chance to lie with her? He looked down. Her left hand rested near his cock, grown soft and pliant once again, fingers twining in the black hair low on his belly. He felt his semen drying on his stomach and chest, all contained under the shirt he still wore. Marjorie removed her hand from his groin and raised it to her lips, tasting the smear of liquid that clung to her thumb. He moaned as she lingered over the task, imagining the movement of her tongue around the digit and, unbelievably, felt himself twitch back to life.

She looked down and smiled. “Would you like to rest or continue with your lesson?” she drawled.

“Yes, please,” he whispered. A memory of a look she’d given him earlier inspired him to try something. “I want to continue, mistress.”

Her eyes darkened and her smile broadened. “Very good, sir,” she purred. “But first, let’s clean you up a bit.” She pushed his shirt up and over his head, wadding it up to towel off his chest. She lingered over the task, her fingers straying over him, thumbs brushing against nipples more sensitive than he ever would have known. She leaned forward, running her tongue along the one closest to her, extracting a whimper when she used her teeth on him. She looked up at him with a grin and stood. “For your next lesson, I will teach you how to undress a lady.”

He blinked. “Undress you?” he said, baffled and terribly aroused all at the same time.

“Yes,” she asserted, “but first I want you to button your breeches, Ross.” She walked to the fireplace and began to take the rest of the pins out of her hair.

He frowned, confused by her request yet transfixed by the cascade of black curls she released with each pin’s departure. “May I ask why, mistress?” He fumbled over the placket of his breeches, adjusting his half erect cock in order to button the flap.

She paused. “Tell me, would you feel more confident approaching a fully clothed woman whilst you stood before her, naked as the day you were born, your cock standing at attention?” Ross felt his cheeks grow quite warm. “Partial nudity provides one partial protection. Being completely nude in front of one’s lover is to be vulnerable, especially when it is the first time.” She crooked her finger at him and he found himself powerless to resist her. He stood and walked over to her, close enough to smell her perfume once again: _lilies,_ he thought, and an underlying musk of her own. She smiled up at him, brushed a kiss on the underside of his jaw. “I find the removal of clothing to be one of the loveliest forms of foreplay one can have in their repertoire,” she said, reaching back to remove another hairpin.

He touched her hand. “May I, please?” She nodded silently, a smile spreading across her lips. She turned her back, presenting the elaborate curls and loops of her hair, He studied it for a moment before slipping his fingers in to clasp the pin already half way removed. He followed the pattern of curls, removing one, and then another until he thought he was finished. To be sure, he took his fingers and ran them along her scalp as she had done his. Her body jerked back against his, and a tremor racked her from head to toe. Her hands reached back to grip his thighs and she moaned.

“That is very, very good, sir,” she sighed. He could feel her fingernails dig into his thighs and he stepped closer, pressing his hips against her buttocks, closing his eyes against the relief the movement gave him. His hands drifted up from his sides to finally cup her breasts. They were high, quite full, enticing him since he’d arrived at her door. He’d remembered them, creamy and smooth, swelling above the neckline of her riding habit from her visit to Nampara. The fantasy of seeing them, naked in his hands, tasting them had driven him to the barn to spill his seed in the haystack within moments of her departure. They now seared his palms with their weight and heat, despite the layers of material that shrouded them.

She stepped back, arching her back and thrusting her round buttocks against him, moaning deep in her throat before she placed her hands over his to stop his frenzied caress of her breasts. “Too soon, sir,” she whispered, turning in his arms. “It will be much better once some of these garments have been removed.”

She kissed him, her hands slipping around his waist to press against his back. His hands reached up to cup her face, to cradle her head, holding it still. His mouth savaged hers and he felt her tremble against him. “Marjorie,” he moaned against her lips, dragging them down the column of her neck.

She pressed a hand to his chest, stepping away from his body and looked up into his eyes. They were the color of her dress, blue-black and smouldering. “I said, too soon. I promise, you will enjoy the experience.”

Ross grit his teeth and nodded.

“First, the hooks at the front of the bodice,” she said, lifting his hands to rest on either side of the seam. The back of his knuckles brushed her breasts and made his hands tingle. Their eyes met and the corner of her mouth tilted up in a grin. “So focused on your task,” she teased. He felt his own brow arch at her and hazard brushing her lips with his. When he lifted his head, he noticed her eyes were fixed on his mouth. “Becoming bolder, sir,” she murmured softly, manipulating his hands until the first hook gave then nodded for him to proceed. Ross’s attention was immediately drawn to the shadowy skin revealed with the hook’s surrender and his efforts redoubled.

His hands moved with remarkable smoothness down the front of her gown, revealing a portion of the ivory silk and lace shift and stays underneath. She talked him through the removal of the dress, which provided a welcomed moment of comic relief while he hauled the yards and yards of her skirt up her body to lift it over her head. He stopped, staring at her. The stays lifted and held her breasts high on her chest, the cleavage deep and fragrant before him. She had a mole near the crest of her left breast that he wished to lick. His hands reached to cup her once again, but she turned before he could reach her. She brushed the thick cascade of hair away from her neck, revealing a crisscross of laces covered her from the middle of her back down. “Before you unlace my stays you will need to untie my petticoats first.” She reached behind and pointed at the bow at the base of her spine. His fingers grasped and pulled the bow free and the petticoats billowed to the floor.

He groaned. Her shift was nearly translucent, the light from the fireplace silhouetting the lower half of her body and showing her beautifully shaped legs at full advantage. He could see the ribbon garters halfway up her thighs and her full, round buttocks, the shadowed cleft so tantalizingly near. “You’re so beautiful,” he rasped.

She turned her head and smiled up at him. “I told you this would be enjoyable, did I not, sir?”

He nodded and swallowed. “Yes, you did, mistress,” he said, his fingers moving swiftly to the laces of her stays. He had to get her out of her clothes and in his hands before he died, he realized. The stays loosened, sagged, and then slid to the floor on top of her petticoats. The neckline of the shift slid down, revealing the curve of her neck and shoulders. He clasped her arms and lowered his mouth to the nape and growled, tasting the skin of her neck. She stepped forward and turned to face him and he thought he _would_ die. The shift’s neckline was caught on the tips of her breasts, her dusky pink nipples the size of ripe cherries, hard and causing his mouth to water from need. Her wide, generous hips swelled from a small waist, and a shadow of black hair was clearly discernable between her thighs. She shifted her shoulder twice and gravity took the shift to join the rest of the clothes on the floor.

The reality was a thousand times better than the hazy preview he’d been given mere moments before. He took two steps forward, his hands gripped her shoulders and he kissed her. The feel of her naked breasts against his chest made him thrust his hips against her. His hands trembled as he ran them up and down the soft skin of her back before bringing them in front to cup and fondle her breasts. She moaned in his mouth, sighing his name and sending a shiver down his back to his balls.

She broke their kiss, leaning her forehead against his chest. “I am quite aroused, Ross,” she said simply, her voice husky with need. “Quite aroused.” She rubbed her cheek against his breast, pausing to tongue his nipple. Her caress sent another wave of arousal to his aching cock. She stepped back from him, drawing a deep groan up from his chest, until she stood near the bed. “Look at me, sir, and tell me what clues you can see that indicate I am aroused?”

He pressed his palm against his turgid length. She tsk-tsked him, shaking her head and giving him a pouting smile. He swallowed, doing his best to ignore the mixture of pleasure and pain the heavy pulse in his erection caused. “Your nipples,” he gasped, licking his lips uncontrollably. “They’re hard.”

“Yes, sir, they are.” She reached up and pinched them and he closed his eyes. She would destroy him before the night was through, of that he was certain. He was halfway there already. “What else?”

He struggled, brows furrowing. “You are very flushed, Mistress, here,” he observed, and walked over to her. He raised his right hand and brushed it along the crest of her breasts, up her neck and to her cheeks. He watched her blink several times as his hand ran over her skin, the delicate rose pink color deepening.

“Yes,” she breathed, her hand reaching out to run down the length of his left arm, which hung down loosely by his side. She took his hand in hers and smiled up into his eyes. “There is another way to tell that isn’t quite so visible… from your present perspective,” she teased, leaving him baffled. Seconds later, his bafflement was replaced by a combination of shock and wonder as she took his hand and slipped it between her legs. She moaned, jerking her hips against it as his fingers clumsily explored the slick, swollen lips of her sex.

“So hot and…wet,” he said softly, sliding his fingers another inch along her slit. His eyes met hers, lashes lowered.

“Y-yes,” she panted. She licked her lips again, rocking her hips against his fingers’ uneducated caress. “L-Lubrication to e-ease the way for our j-joining.” She stumbled over the words as the rhythm of her movements became more deliberate. Ross’s arm tightened around her waist as she leaned against him, her fingernails scoring his back. She thrust against him once more and he felt his middle finger slip into her quim, a moist pool of heat that twitched and trembled under his touch. She groaned again, her hips jerking against his hand twice before she stepped back, clasping his hand and pulling him onto the bed next to her.

His gasped, the breeches pinching painfully against his cock. He reached for the buttons at his waistband but she slapped the top of his hand. “Ouch, dammit,” he exclaimed, a rush of anger coursing through him. He raised his hand out of the way and suddenly realized the source for the musk he’d smelled combined with her perfume. He looked at his hand, glistening with the wetness from between her thighs. He brought it to his nose, her eyes avidly following his movements. The scent was indescribably sensual and uniquely hers. Remembering how she’d tasted his semen, how it had made him feel, he smiled the first sexually confident smile of the evening and placed his middle finger into his mouth.

Salt. Sea. Spice. Sweat. Sweet. Tang. He closed his eyes, his tongue swirling around first the one then two of his fingers, savoring her essence. He opened his eyes to find her lying back on the bed, eyes closed, her hand between her thighs, taking over for his as she gyrated against it. He stretched out next to her, his hand resuming its place between her thighs, his fingers entwined with hers.

She opened her eyes, black with need, “Ross,” she gasped, “do this, please.” She took his hand and guided him through the motions, guiding first one, and then two fingers inside of her sex. He felt as if he were watching the proceedings from a spot across the room, so entranced he was in her response. He unconsciously thrust his cock against her thigh, friction igniting his own need for her with each stroke. Her eyes met his, and she pressed his thumb against a slick, erect mass of flesh at the front of her slit. She screamed, holding his hand still against her, within her as she shuddered around him. The muscles of her sex clenched around his fingers once, then again and again. He groaned, felt the pulse of his own blood in his groin as he ejaculated, his seed jetting thick and sticky in his breeches. He didn’t care. All he wanted was to rid himself of the garment and ram himself into her body, to feel the clench and pull he’d experienced against his fingers on his cock, to pour himself into her again and again and again.

She lay small and trembling in his arms, her fingers toying with one of his nipples. He took her hand, brought it to his lips to kiss and smelled her scent on her fingers. He brought her fingers to his mouth, sucking each digit and relishing the taste once again.

“You _are_ a very quick learner, sir,” she purred. He opened his eyes to see her watching him, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips.

He grinned up at her. “I’ve pleased you?” he asked. She arched a brow. “Mistress?”

She laughed, low and throatily, leaning up to kiss him. Her tongue lingered along his lower lip, and he wondered if she had tasted herself there, left behind by either of their hands. He blushed, a thought forming in the back of his mind. “What is it, sir?” she asked.

He gave her a sideways glance, then leaned up on his elbow to look down on her face. “I was wondering if it would be permissible to taste you properly, mistress?” he asked, his hand trailing down to pinch her nipple.

“Yes, it is permissible,” she whispered, “but there’s nothing proper about it, sir.”


	6. I will turn your flesh to alabaster....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lessons continue...
> 
> Prompted from a conversation started by @osmarinamo on tumblr: This morning I was enjoying @rainpuddle13’s fanfic Convergence and got to thinking: how did Ross become so sexually knowledgeable? Would love someone to write about Ross’ own growth as a sexual being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely @rainpuddle13 herself. Many thanks to @genie1960, @rainpuddle13, @vickysnest, @alicebhatt,@mayyourbeardnevergrowthin, @shareinanadventure, @thistle-brook,@audleystreet, @shiparker, @annaania01, @goodgirlwhoshopeful. Their participation in the conversation helped me conceive of the storyline.

He smiled at her, this young man who only an hour before had stood in her parlour with barely enough nerve to kiss her. It was a man’s smile, one who’d known the touch of a woman’s hand on his body; one whose hands had taken a woman to the peak of pleasure. She’d hoped his naiveté would not have presented too much of an obstacle for them, for him to resist the things she wished to do. She was, in a word, expectant. To say she was thus far pleased with the course of evening’s events was an understatement.

She liked the way he looked at her, his hungry eyes sweeping the length of her body, his large hand cupping and fondling her full left breast. He lightly pinched her nipple again and she squeezed her knees together.

“Does that help?” he asked, his thumb brushing over the hard peak.

She glanced down, taking a moment to close her eyes as shivering nerves snaked across her breast with every stroke. She looked at him. “Squeezing my knees together?” she asked. Damn, he was very observant. A good thing. “To a certain extent,” she admitted. “As I told you earlier, I am very aroused, sir.”

“Still?” he laughed softly, and Marjorie found she truly enjoyed the sound of it. “I’m surprised I am capable of intelligent speech.”

“As am I,” she crooned, drawing him down to kiss his full mouth, tangling her tongue with his. She broke their kiss and relaxed against the pillow. Her hand rested low on his back, fingers grazing the upper curve of his buttocks and she looked down. His breeches were stained and wrinkled beyond reparation. She grinned with anticipation. “However, you asked me something that did wonders for my recovery.” She looked up at him while her fingers slipped the buttons of his breeches free, smiling a bit at the muscles of his lower belly as they twitched from her touch. “It just so happens to be one of my very favorite things.” She slipped out of his embrace, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and stood. She turned to find him staring at the silken hair covering her mound. She clapped her hands to gain his attention and almost laughed to see his head jerk up at her to meet her gaze. “Why don’t you rid yourself of those breeches of yours? There’s fresh water and linens by the ewer on the dresser if you’d like to wash.”

Ross blinked and nodded, holding the waist of his breeches up. He eased off the bed, walked, over to the dresser and let the garment fall. Marjorie stopped turning the bedclothes down and stared.

He stood tall and graceful by the china ewer, the light from the fire and the candle making his skin glow. It was olive, making him appear to have a tan, even in the depth of winter. His buttocks and thighs were taut and firm from years of farm labor and horseback riding. His feet where large and broad, providing a suitable foundation for someone of his size and stature. The water splashed in the ewer, and she watched as he dampened a cloth and washed himself, running the cloth along his flanks, before his hand dipped out of view to run over his chest and genitals. She felt the folds of her sex grow heavy and plump once again. Blinking, she finished preparing the bed and slipped under the sheet, arranging it carefully around her body and holding the edge up against her breasts. “Ross?” she called out to him.

He stopped, turning to look at her. The disappointment in his eyes to find her covered was almost laughable, if she weren’t as eager for him as he was for her. “Yes, Mistress?” he asked.

“When you finish, please bring me two towels, one dry and one slightly dampened.” She glanced at the one in his hand. “That one will do.” He nodded and finished his bath. He gathered the towels in hand and turned, the lengths of linen shielding his sex. “Ross,” she said, pouting. “’Tis only fair that I should see you as you have seen me, yes?” He stopped and nodded, holding them at his side and walking over to the other side of the bed.

Marjorie had always considered herself to be a cock and balls woman, meaning it was usually the first thing she noticed about a man. She had to admit, he’d been blessed with beauty for both. What she hadn’t anticipated was the deep, visceral reaction she would have to his chest. He had a man’s chest, covered with thick, black hairs that plunged from his stomach down his belly and flared out to thicken once again around his genitals. His penis was large, even in repose, shielded within his foreskin, his scrotum loose and relaxed between his legs.

She very much looked forward to having his cock inside her. Soon.

“Your linens, Mistress,” he said, holding them out to her. He had no idea what the use of that title did to her. _Or did he?_ she asked herself as she looked up into his eyes.

“Place them on the side table next to you, sir, and join me under the covers,” she murmured, her right hand running over the mattress next to her. He set the linens down and did as she’d asked, sliding over until their knees touched. “Now, you’d asked me if it was permissible for you to taste me properly, yes?”

His cheeks turned ruddy and he pulled the sheet up until it covered his lap. She’d permit this, for now. “Yes, mistress, I did.”

“Why?”

He blinked. “Why would I want to taste you?” he asked, confused. She nodded and watched as his blush deepened. “B-Because… because your taste is…”

“You enjoyed it,” she said, simply, running her right hand across his chest. The hair was silky under her touch.

“But, is it…” he said, trailing off his thought.

She slipped closer, her legs tangling with his. “Remember, nothing we do here is shameful or wrong, Ross. You can ask me anything.”

His brow furrowed momentarily before he lifted his eyes to meet hers. “I never would have thought something like that was done.” He paused, thinking a moment, before he picked up her hand again and raised it to his lips.

She smiled at the gesture. “Many people find the practice sinful and revolting,” she said. “For me, it is one of the most intimate things two people can share. There are even some who would wear their lover’s essence like a perfume or cologne.” He blinked at her and she laughed, pressing a kiss on his jaw. “While I would not go that far, I have been known not to bathe straight away after lovemaking. There is something honest about everything that happens when two people enjoy one another’s bodies, and the scent of sex is most honest.”

He swallowed. “I noticed your scent earlier,” he said, his voice low and husky. “When I undressed you. It intrigued me, aroused me.” He looked at her, his eyes dark. “After I touched you, and my hand was wet from you. It was if I was compelled to do it. Needed to know all of you.”

Marjorie licked her lips. “I hoped you would, sir,” she murmured, breathing in a stuttering breath. She reached up and tugged at the ribbon at his nape, freeing his hair. “It pleased me very much.” They slid down under the bedclothes and she drew him into her arms. Her eyes drifted shut when his arms slid around her waist and lay pressed chest to breast with him for the first time. “I want you to taste me,” she murmured in his ear, her teeth nipping gently on his lobe. “All of me, from head to toe and back again. Just me this time,” she added. “Your turn will come soon enough, sir.”

“Marjorie,” he moaned, bringing his mouth down onto hers. He kissed her, tongue tangling with hers as she enjoyed the turbulent spinning of her head at his caress. Her fingers slid through his hair at last, the wild, spiraling shoulder-length strands silky under her touch. He shifted his mouth down her neck past the black velvet ribbon still adorning it. His tongue stroked her collarbone before he moved down to her breast. He kissed and licked the mole she had on her left breast before his mouth closed on her nipple for the first time. He shuddered against her, his hands gripping her back hard enough to leave marks. She groaned, casting off the first restraints of control as his lips tugged, tongue circled, and teeth nipped. He’d slipped one of his legs between hers, and she found herself thrusting against the thick thigh pressed against her sex. His head lifted and he breathed deeply. “God, Marjorie, my skin feels as if it were on fire.”

“Mine as well, Ross,” she gasped. “Now, please.” She pressed her hands on his shoulders. “Please…no shame.” He looked at her, shifting down her body, shoving the bedclothes away as he pressed kisses along her ribs and stomach before dipping his tongue into her navel. She watched as he stopped when he reached the apex of her thighs, his hands stroking the silky black curls shielding her sex. He pressed a kiss to her mound, making her hips thrust against him involuntarily.

He looked up at her, their eyes locking. “Marjorie,” he growled, sliding his body in between her legs and shifting them over his shoulders. He stared at her sex for several beats, using his long fingers to part the slick folds for his perusal. The feather-light caress whispered along her overheated flesh and made her whimper unashamedly. “So beautiful,” he whispered, his breath hot and cold at the same time, and lowered his mouth to her.

She groaned, the rough pad of his tongue swirling around her clit before sliding further down to her quim, dipping deep inside her. She felt her thighs tremble as his hands gripped and squeezed the flesh of her buttocks in time with his mouth’s caress. The rasp of his beard-stubbled cheek against her skin made a rough counterpoint to the softness of his mouth. She gripped his hair, holding him against her as he kissed and tasted the thick, glistening dew between her thighs. He made deep, guttural noises and sounds that vibrated against her moist flesh, his tongue shifting back up to her clit, flicking against it with the skill of a master.

She opened her eyes to find his – black with lust – watching her as she writhed, gasping, under his mouth. His hands reached up, tweaking her nipples. His name was a moan born deep from her chest. Marjorie thrust twice more before her orgasm struck her like a blow, making her cry out in ecstasy and buck her hips against his mouth.

Until he shifted, crawling back up her body and ramming his cock into her still quivering core.


	7. When you find your servant is your master....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lessons resume... and continue...
> 
> Prompted from a conversation started by @osmarinamo on tumblr: This morning I was enjoying @rainpuddle13’s fanfic Convergence and got to thinking: how did Ross become so sexually knowledgeable? Would love someone to write about Ross’ own growth as a sexual being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely @rainpuddle13 herself. Many thanks to @genie1960, @rainpuddle13, @vickysnest, @alicebhatt,@mayyourbeardnevergrowthin, @shareinanadventure, @thistle-brook,@audleystreet, @shiparker, @annaania01, @goodgirlwhoshopeful. Their participation in the conversation helped me conceive of the storyline.

He froze suspended over her body, the small, delicate muscles of her quim fluttering madly around his cock and stealing his breath. Marjorie, this woman who had opened his eyes to a world of sensual possibilities mere hours ago, stared up into his face, flushed from her climax, her eyes wide with shock. At the temerity he’d had to take the lead in their lovemaking, to surge inside her without her permission? He prayed to a god in whom he didn’t believe that that was not the case. He didn’t think it could stop, even if she begged him to.

“Ross.” Her voice was throaty, strangled…with what, tears? Pain? He began to panic, easing back from her, closing his eyes and wincing at the exquisite pull of her flesh against his, already mourning the loss of the perfection he’d sunk into when she clasped him around the waist with her slender legs, her heels hooking him around his buttocks and drawing him back, deeper into her. Her arms pulled him down onto her body. “Don’t you dare stop,” she all but sobbed in his ear as her hips ground into his. He leaned back, focusing his eyes on hers, finding them blue-black, and shimmering with need. “Fuck me, please.”

Her words sent a shudder through him. Her eyes were half closed, her mouth open and gasping, the tip of her tongue barely noticeable between her teeth. He growled, low and deep before he bent his head to feed on her mouth, his own gasping moans filling her as his hips began to move. Her tongue snaked out to lick his chin, to suck his bottom lip. “I taste good on you,” she moaned against his mouth before she brought it back to hers to savage. She squeezed him with her body, the muscles milking him as he pistoned in and out of her. The moist heat of her surrounded him tighter than any fist ever could. His tore his lips from hers, unable to get enough air through his nose alone.

He bore the weight of his torso on his forearms, his hands wrapped around her shoulders as he kissed her face, her ear, her neck. He felt the sting of her nails as she raked his back, his breath hissing in her ear. A murmured, breathy apology, the taste of her lips, the thundering of his heart that threatened to explode within him. Their pace was frantic. Her legs trembled against his flanks as he thrust harder, deeper within her silken core.

“Please, please,” she begged him, her voice feathering past his ear and sending shivers down his spine, pressure building at its base.

 _No,_ he thought to himself, _no, not yet._ His movements became frantic. One of his hands moved to her hip, clasped the smooth flesh of her buttock to hold her still as he plunged, seeking oblivion. “Marjorie,” he groaned, and felt the beginnings of his climax send shards of pleasure to his testicles, squeezed tight against him and the force of the first jet of semen grayed his vision. She cried out, the sound making his ears ring as he poured himself into her, hips jerking and slamming against hers. Her sex clenched, relentless, around him, wringing him dry. Nerves fired along his legs and arms, the strength of his muscles failing as he collapsed upon her, his breath heaving in and out of his chest.

This. This was what it was all about. Release. Bliss. Sacred. Sin. Grace. Wonder.

He felt her shiver under him and he lifted his head and shoulders, supporting himself on forearms that trembled. Her face was tear stained, and his heart leapt to his throat. He started to withdraw, but she shook her head, a blissful smile making her face even more beautiful than he’d found her before. He kissed her cheeks and lips, tasting salt of her sweat, tears and her sex. The scent in the air was lush and primal. He understood then what she’d meant when she had said there was something honest about the scent of sex and the enjoyment of one another’s bodies.

His body began to cool, the flesh held within her body softening, slipping free. His buttocks twitched at the sensation and he felt bereft of the wet satin warmth that had surrounded him. “No,” she mewled against his throat.

He lifted his head to look at her. “Mistress,” he breathed. “Did I please you?”

She opened her eyes. The corner of her mouth curled up in a grin while her lashes lowered to shield her gaze. She nodded twice. “Very much, dear sir.”

He kissed her and, slipping off her body, gathered her against him in repose.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They woke an hour or so later, stomachs rumbling with hunger. Marjorie went down to the kitchen to find something for them to eat and drink. They sat up in bed, talking of random things: the chores he had to do, the books she’d read, some of the mischief he’d made, the life she had before her husband died. They didn’t speak of tomorrow, nor of yesterday. Soon, food and wine was not enough and they made love again, slower this time, until they drifted off to sleep, tentatively joined.

Marjorie’s eyes opened several hours later, nestled in Ross’s arms. She looked at him. He was beautiful when asleep; his hair a wild tangle around his head and shoulders, his long lashes dark against his cheeks. His full lips were slightly parted, making her want to kiss him awake. But she smiled. She had something else planned for him, something she’d wanted to do to him since he arrived.

She carefully slipped from his arms, pausing momentarily when he flinched and shifted from his side to his back. She turned back the bedclothes, the air turning redolent of their night together, drawing the sheets down his slumbering form, until she revealed the object of her desire. Full and erect, his cock lay against his stomach, rising and falling to the beat of his heart. Arching beautifully from the root of his body, he was fully aroused, the glans of his penis unsheathed and ripe. A pearl of liquid slipped through the slit, tempting her. She’d resisted last night. She’d not again.

She knelt next to his hips and carefully tilted the curving column an inch off of his stomach. Closing her eyes, she captured the head of his cock in her mouth. He tasted of her, musk and salt coating his skin. His hips jerked and she swallowed another inch of him, moaning as she felt his hands in her hair. She slipped the fingers of her left hand between her legs to pluck and swirl around her clit, taking another inch of him. She fixed a sidelong glance at him, watching as he came awake, realized what was happening,

“Marjorie,” he gasped and groaned at the same time. She released him and swirled her tongue around to lick and caress the juicy head of his cock. She straddled his knees, pinioning him to the bed so he couldn’t move. Her blue eyes captured his disbelieving hazel gaze. “God…Mistress,” he groaned and her fingers moved faster, capturing her clit between her thumb and forefinger, twisting and stroking it. She raised her head, her lips within inches of the ridge of his cock and smiled.

“I told you your turn would come later, did I not, sir?” she crooned softly. She knew her breath blew cool against the wet skin, watching him squirm in response before her mouth descended upon him once again.

“Jesus, Mistress,” he moaned, his fingers running through her hair as he thrust into her mouth. She was merciless, her pace slowing then speeding up, driving him to the brink of orgasm time and again.

Finally, she raised her head from his cock, nearly purple with desire, and smiled. Her folds of her sex were slick and swollen, her clit throbbing with need. She began to crawl up the bed, her legs straddling his thighs, then the apex of his legs. She rested her clit against the root of his cock and felt his pulse match hers.

“Oh, Jesus,” Ross moaned, his eyes burning with mindless need as she rubbed her clit and inner folds of her sex against him, marking him with her dew. Their eyes were fixed on the image in front of him, black silk with black silk.

“Do you like that, dear sir,” she said, her voice tremulous as the friction of his skin on her clit made her shudder. _One more moment, Marjorie._

“Yes,” he choked, “yes I do, sweet mistress.” His hands were fisted in the bedclothes and he shook with need. She could bear it no longer. She slipped up and over his cock, taking it in her hand and guided it to her cunt.

She felt the head of his cock brush the outer lips of her sex. “Hold still,” she rasped, and lowered herself on top of him. She watched him through her lashes as his girth stretched her, the walls of her sex already fluttering against him. His eyes were closed, breath hissing between his teeth throughout her descent until she was fully seated on him. She looked at him, her vision tunneling to see only him, his breath sawing through his mouth and nose, his hands now clenched around her hips. He trembled under her, within her. Power flooded her veins, power they’d shared between them all night. In this moment, it was hers, and she reveled in it.

Her own breath was reedy, labored from controlling her need for orgasm. “I shall ride you now. Do what you can to keep from coming, yes?”

He nodded, dumbly. “Y-Yes, Marjorie, yes.” She circled her hips and his fingers dug deeper in her flesh. “Jesus God,” he moaned, his voice cracking.

She gave a panting laugh. “We’ve not done that yet.” She circled again. He dug his heels into the mattress behind her, the ropes under the thick padding squeaking in protest. “It’s good, yes?”

“Yes!” he gasped. She did it again, this time three times in succession. He thrust up, hard, against her.

She was shuddering, her climax so close now. “Look at me, sir.” His eyelids drifted up. “Look at us,” she whispered, rising off his cock by an inch then sliding back down. He stared, and she knew he was transfixed on the sight of his cock slipping into her sex. She did this twice more before taking her finger and touching her clit. She came apart, screaming as she tightened around him.

He groaned, clasping her by the waist and flipping her onto her back, thrusting hard into her, growling. He slammed his cock deep into her, the waves of her orgasm making her gasp and cry tears of ecstasy. “Marjorie, Jesus, all I want is to be in you, riding you, fucking you, always… always… Christ, always…” He stiffened, his hips jerking and shaking, gasping and moaning her name over and over again as his seed poured into her. She came again, feeling him spasm within her.

He collapsed atop her. She welcomed his weight on her body, stroking his sweat-soaked back, kissing his throat, the pulse beating under her lips thundering, erratic, and all for her. They lay like that until she felt his cock slip from between her folds. He rose up onto his forearms and kissed her before shifting his body to the side. His hand reached for the linen and handed it to her where she gently blotted first him, then herself before tucking it under the pillow.

She settled against his chest and sighed when she felt his arms encircle her. “Good morning, kind sir,” she said softly against his chest, her tongue sneaking out to flick his nipple.

He caught her face in his hands and kissed her, lingering over the task with lips with skill borne of their night together. He broke their kiss, kissing her nose, her cheeks, her eyelids and back again. “Good morning, Mistress mine.”


	8. Wrapped around your finger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning arrives....
> 
> Prompted from a conversation started by @osmarinamo on tumblr: This morning I was enjoying @rainpuddle13’s fanfic Convergence and got to thinking: how did Ross become so sexually knowledgeable? Would love someone to write about Ross’ own growth as a sexual being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely @rainpuddle13 herself. Many thanks to @genie1960, @rainpuddle13, @vickysnest, @alicebhatt,@mayyourbeardnevergrowthin, @shareinanadventure, @thistle-brook,@audleystreet, @shiparker, @annaania01, @goodgirlwhoshopeful. Their participation in the conversation helped me conceive of the storyline.

Marjorie rose from the bed. It was Sunday, the day she normally gave herself to rest from her work as a seamstress and she was grateful to have it even more. She stretched, grimacing at the stiffness she felt in some of her joints. The flesh between her legs was tender, deliciously so and she smiled in remembrance of the events that had caused it, her glance flickering over the long, lean body of the sleeping man she’d left behind.

She walked to the wardrobe near her vanity and removed the silk robe that hung on its hook, the cool fabric caressing her skin, bringing to mind other caresses from the night before. She glanced at the clock on the mantle, quickly wondering if there were enough time…for what? To lie with him once more before his tarrying became truly noticeable? It would have been best if he’d left at dawn, as every one of her previous lovers had been instructed to do. It was now almost ten o’clock, near the time most of the landed gentry would bother rising from their beds. Not so for those of more modest means. People would be traveling on the roads, to church, to visit family on their day of rest. As it was, she realized, he would have to leave her stables through the woods in order to escape detection by the gossip mongers.

Had it been worth the risks she’d taken? _Yes_ , she thought to herself. Most assuredly, yes.

She picked up her brush and began smoothing the tangles from her long black hair, staring into the cold hearth and brooding. They hadn’t discussed the future, if such a thing existed between the two of them. They’d come together with the thought being it would be a single night of a lesson in pleasure. He hadn’t left her bed and she already missed him.

Broad hands touched her shoulders and she jumped, her eyes flashing up to the mirror, finding his own staring back at her. Sleepy, dark, desiring. Her lids flickered a moment before she smiled brightly at him, turning in his hands and rising on tiptoe to kiss him. His arms brought her against him, flush with his nakedness, and she felt the heat of his erection against her belly. She indulged in a moment more of his mouth against hers before she leaned back to look at him. “Ross,” she said softly, her left hand petting his chest.

“Did you sleep well, Mistress?” he murmured, brushing her temple with his lips.

She was happy he could not see the tear that streaked down her cheek. She brushed it away quickly. “Yes, I did, Ross,” she said, the use of his name for a second time in a row a deliberate decision on her part. It was time to break the spell. She pulled back, turning to face to the mirror and running the brush through her hair with efficiency. “I trust you did as well?”

He watched her in the mirror, his eyes turning somber as a furrow formed over them. “Yes, I did, Marjorie, very well.”

The wall was being built, she could see it in his eyes. Her own was being fortified with each passing moment. A knock rang out on the door. He looked at her, panic flickering in his gaze. She motioned to the screen on the other side of the room. He strode over quickly and was silent. Marjorie walked over to the door, opening it a crack. “Yes, what is it, Sarah?”

“Begging your pardon, mistress, but I’ve your breakfast tray. A package has also arrived for you from Nampara Cottage,” the maid said, handing her a paper-wrapped bundle.

“Thank you, Sarah,” Marjorie said, setting the parcel down on the chair next to the door and reaching for the tray. “That will be all.” Sarah curtseyed and walked back towards the steps. Marjorie nudged the door shut with her toe. “You can come out now, Ross.”

Ross peered around the screen and, seeing the coast was clear, came out. He held his genitals cupped in his hands, dropping his shield at Marjorie’s arched eyebrow. “I didn’t know you had a maid, Mi—Marjorie,” he said, stumbling over his words. “Will she know I am here?”

She set the tray down, returning to pick up the parcel from the chair and walked over to where he stood. “She will know someone is here, not whom.” She looked at him. “Sarah can be trusted with discretion. We have an… arrangement.” That arrangement being Marjorie’s silence to Sarah’s family about a child she’d borne out of wedlock. “She _might_ guess who it is by this,” she said, casting a rueful look at the parcel. “From your father, I suspect. Clothes for your return journey.” Ross blushed scarlet, swallowing. “What is it?”

Ross looked at her, his expression grim. “I suppose it chafes a bit, his knowing what occurred here with you last night.”

Her resolve wavered, seeing him standing there while he unwrapped the package and drew out fresh breeches and a shirt. She captured his hands in hers and looked up at him. “He knows we became lovers. But he does not know what happened between us here last night, and he never shall.”

The breeches and shirt fell to the floor as he reached for her, hands sliding around her waist, pulling her towards him while he captured her mouth with his. She leaned into his body, her hands sliding up to clasp his shoulder blades while they trembled against each other. He picked her up, carrying her to the bed where they lay together, her robe undone, his mouth on her throat as his hands caressed her breasts, making them tingle with need for his mouth.

Minutes later, he slipped inside her. She did her best to conceal her wince as he filled her and failed. “Marjorie?” he whispered. “Have I hurt you?”

She smiled wryly. “I am tender,” she said, hooking her legs around him to keep him from withdrawing. “I want this, Ross. Please.” He kissed her, groaning in her mouth as she circled her hips around him as he began to thrust. They didn’t last long, she shuddering while he filled, both sighing into each other’s hair as they reached completion. He drew back and kissed her, with an aching quality that was almost her undoing. Almost.

They lay quiet, joined for several moments before he spoke. “What happens now?” he asked.

She smoothed the hair out of his eyes and ran her thumb across his bottom lip. “We go on as before,” she said, feeling the loss as he slipped from her body and moved to lie next to her. She curled up next to him and felt him press a kiss to her hair.

“Can I see you again?” he asked.

She looked up into his eyes. “Do you think that would be best, Ross?”

“I don’t know,” he said cautiously. “I want to see you again.”

 _And I you_ , she thought to herself, entertaining a momentary fantasy in her mind before her sensibilities steered her back to reality. “There is a danger in our doing so, Ross.” She sat up, turning to look at him over her shoulder. “Attachment. Discovery. Scandal. Now I know you are a bit rebellious,” she said, smiling when he’d looked to object. “But in the end it would not be your reputation that was ruined. It would be mine.”

The stubborn fight left his eyes in an instant as he realized she was exactly right. “I hadn’t even thought of that, Marjorie.” He joined her, sitting on the side of the bed, looking into her eyes. “I don’t want that for you, regardless of how much I might want _you_.”

She stroked his cheek and kissed him on his jaw. “Thank you.”

They left the bed moments later. Ross reluctantly washed, understanding the reasons for it, but muttering curses under his breath all the while. They shared her breakfast, which surprisingly appeared to be enough for two, minus the extra teacup, before he turned to look around the room. “Marjorie, you haven’t seen the ribbon I used to club my hair last night, have you?”

She smiled up at him, then drew back the edge of her robe from her upper leg. There, wrapped high along her upper thigh, was the ribbon. He looked at her, his eyes darkening a moment before his hands reached out to untie it. He slid the ribbon free, trailing his fingers along her slit and making her tremble. He brought his fingers up to his face, tasting one whilst staring into her eyes, then taking the other and rubbing it along his wrist before tying the ribbon around his hair.

“Thank you, Mistress,” he whispered as he took her in his arms and lowered his head, kissing her deeply until they both shuddered with reawakening desire.

She pulled away, pressing her hands on his chest. “Go now, kind sir,” she said, her voice husky with emotion. “By the forest, there is a trail that will take you to the other side of the wood.” He paused, kissing her lips once more before turning and leaving the room. The door closed with a solid click.

 

Marjorie found herself a bit at sea in the days following Ross’s departure. She stayed close to home, content to work on the sewing projects she had stockpiled, venturing out to town or to see clients whenever absolutely necessary. She was content with her own company, the winter in Cornwall was an easy time to stay in from the cold. She attended the odd social occasion here and there, to keep up appearances, but she found herself bored and restless almost the instant she arrived, no longer entertaining herself with a search for a new favourite to help her stay warm at night. Her thoughts would invariably turn towards large, eager hands caressing her flesh, his mouth hungrily feasting upon her womanhood, his cock throbbing deep within her, filling her with his come. Now, the men of the local district paled in comparison to the youthful exuberance and passion of Ross Poldark.

It was March before she saw him again. She was coming out of the bookseller’s shop when she nearly collided with him on the street in Truro.

“M-Mistress Trengrouse!” he said, his arm shooting out to grasp hers to keep her from falling into a puddle. Her eyes flashed up to his, her shock coming from a combination of hearing his voice using that title and the hand gripping her arm more than the initial fright itself.

“Mister Poldark,” she said, her voice wavering slightly from the beating of the pulse in her throat. “My thanks to you for your assistance today.”

“How have you been?” he asked softly. His thumb brushed the inside of her arm and her heart leapt up in her throat, her pulse hammering in her veins.

“Well enough, kind sir—” She stopped, feeling her cheeks flame at the words. His eyes had darkened and he made a step forward before he froze, removing his hand from her arm. “I am well enough, Mister Poldark. Please give your father my best regards.” She nodded her head while he hastily tipped his hat to her and she walked away, shaken and stirred.

She was putting out the candles in the parlour when she heard a soft knock at the door. Heart pounding, she nearly ran across the room to open the door. He stood there, shrouded in moonlight and fog. He did not wait for a greeting, simply walked into the room and grabbed her, pulling her against him, his mouth bruising hers with its intemperate need. He growled against her mouth, moving his lips to press desperate kisses along the column of her throat. “Mistress,” he moaned, his hips thrusting against her of their own accord. Her hands grappled with the shoulders of his great coat, shoving it off of his body with a snarl. She wanted desperately to feel his chest, to rub her face against the luxuriant hair she knew grew just under a few layers of clothing, but he was already drawing her skirts up, grasping hand after hand of fabric until the coolness of the night air caressed the heated flesh of her buttocks. Her fingers tore at the buttons of the drop front placket of his breeches, releasing his cock into her hands. He lifted her bodily; his hands clenched around her buttocks and drew her down upon him.

She came the instant she was seat at his root, blinding white light bursting behind her closed eyelids. Somewhere in the midst of this she was turned, her back slamming against the front door while he fucked her, growling her name in her ear, words of sex streaming from his mouth and firing her passions once again until they both came, sobbing and crying their pleasure in the crooks of each others’ necks.

He held her, braced between the door and the wall of his body as he pressed kiss after kiss against her cheeks, her forehead and her lips. They whispered words of desire and need until his arms began to shake. Eventually she slid down his body until her feet touched the ground, her knees wobbling when she tried to stand. He buttoned his breeches, caught her up in his arms and mounted the stairs.

He visited frequently after that night, always taking the track behind the house through the wood, coming at night and leaving before dawn. One warm night in late June as they lay covered with sweat from the heat and of their own making, she asked him about a rumour she’d heard about him assaulting a customs official. “Is it true, Ross?” she said, her brow furrowed with worry.

“Yes, unfortunately, although he wasn’t badly injured” he said, running his hand down her back. “A broken hand is all.”

Tears filled her eyes as she raised herself up to look at him. “You could be hanged, Ross! Or transported!”

He drew her back down, circling her with his arms. “While that is true, no, that will not happen to me.” He frowned. “I suspect father is working on something to do about it, but I don’t know what, exactly.”

A month later and all was revealed. He arrived, downcast and angry, desiring and needing her desperately. They made love, only afterwards saying the first words that had passed his lips that evening. “My father has purchased a commission for me in the army,” he said, his voice hollow. “I don’t want to go! To go and fight in a war I don’t believe in. A war where I’m not at all certain they shouldn’t win!”

“You mustn’t say this kinds of things, dear sir!” she cautioned. “’Tis treasonous!”

He kissed her. “You won’t betray me, will you, Mistress?”

She shook her head, stroked his chest. “Of course not.”

“Come with me.”

She blinked. “Have you gone mad?” she asked, incredulously.

“No, no, not at all,” he said, his eyes sparkling with vitality. “No one would ever know you were my senior! We could live there, mar—”

She pressed her hand to his mouth. “No, Ross. No. As much as I might wish to say yes, we simply cannot.”

“Why not?” he demanded petulantly. It was at moments like this she was reminded of how young he was, and she welcomed the reminder very much.

“Despite your being convinced that we could go over there and reinvent ourselves, Ross, you are now an ensign with His Royal Highness’s army. Your name is on the roll sheets. We could not change our identities because it would be considered fraud to collect monies from the government under a false name.” She paused, hating herself to dashing the dreams he’d built in his head – and his heart, she reminded herself – by stating the realities of the situation. “And finally, dear sir,” she said, swallowing past the lump that had formed in her throat, “I cannot bear your children.”

“I don’t care,” he said.

“I do,” she said, resolutely. “And you will too in time.” He was upset with her after this discussion, deciding to rise early and head home. He brushed her forehead with a kiss before he left, a soft “I’m sorry” murmured in her ear.

He kept away through the month of August. For the harvest, she thought to herself, although there was a part of her that believed him to be sulking over her decision. Then in late September, she’d received an invitation to the local assembly. It had been months since she’d danced, and she hoped it would take her mind off of Ross. While she was there, speaking with one of the ladies from Truro, Marjorie noticed a young girl enter the ballroom. She was a strikingly beautiful girl of about sixteen, with honey brown hair, dove gray eyes and full ruby lips. Marjorie leaned over to the woman she’d been speaking to. “Who is that young girl?” she asked.

“That is Elizabeth Chynoweth, Mistress Trengrouse,” her acquaintance said. “Only recently made her debut.”

Marjorie smiled and watched the young woman do all of the things young women of her station are intended to do: smile graciously, blush demurely and act appropriately. Miss Chynoweth was clearly a master of all three. She would make some man a wonderful wife, performing her wifely duties until she’d successfully borne a son, at which point she would tactfully, graciously decline his advances. Which would bring them to women like her.

She was preparing to leave when she saw Ross and his cousin Francis enter the ballroom. He was beautiful, standing taller than most of the young men his age, and carrying himself with something that the others lacked. Self-assurance, and absolute mastery of his appeal to women. Several of the young (and not-so-young) women craned their necks around to see where he was headed. Marjorie glanced in the same direction and saw him approach Miss Chynoweth.

She watched the instant that Elizabeth’s eyes locked onto Ross’s, and Marjorie knew. He might not as of yet, but Marjorie knew. She left the ball, pleading a headache.

Late that evening, she heard a faint tapping on the window, pebbles striking the glass. She rose, knowing whom it would be. She opened the door, looked at his troubled countenance and offered him some port. He mentioned the girl, almost in passing, saying that his cousin had danced attendance around her most of the evening. She asked him for his opinion of her and, based on his responses, it was clear there was a level of interest that had sparked.

He had a little more than two months before he was to leave for America, and he wanted to apologize for his behavior the last time he’d visited her. She accepted his apology and invited him to stay, their lovemaking just as fiery and passionate as it had always been. When he kissed her goodbye, he promised he would come to see her again shortly, well before he left for London and America. She knew he would not. His attraction to the Chynoweth girl was set.

She was right. A week before he was due to leave, Marjorie had heard a rumor that Ross Poldark had promised himself to the Chynoweth girl. She wrote him a letter, with instructions for it to be delivered the night before he left. 

> Dear Ross,
> 
> I am sending you this note with my very best wishes for your safety whilst you are in America fighting. I pray you remain safe and whole and will return to your beloved Cornwall as soon as possible.
> 
> It is my understanding that you have formed an attachment to Elizabeth Chynoweth. She is a beautiful young woman whom I hope will appreciate your heart, courage and passions and respond to them in kind. You will always be in my thoughts, kind sir. I remain,
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Mistress T

She sanded the letter, and sealed it closed. She waited until Sarah had left the room before she succumbed to her tears.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

March 1780

 Joshua Poldark removed his hat and greatcoat and handed it to the young maid. He looked around the cottage foyer, fond memories of his time here in Marjorie’s company springing to mind as he watched her come down the stairs.

“Joshua,” she said brightly, “to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

He kissed her proffered cheek, her perfume still the same. “I heard news of your plans to leave the district and came to see if they were true.”

She nodded, walking them into the parlour. “Yes, an aunt of mine recently passed away and left me a rather unexpected inheritance, including a beautiful flat in Belgrave Square.”

They sat on the settee. Joshua arched an eyebrow. “ You have managed to keep the men at bay here in the backwaters of Cornwall, my dear. I do not believe you will be as fortunate in London.”

She smiled. “We will see what we see.” Sarah offered them refreshment and they chatted a while about the inanities of country life. He’d taken a sip of his tea when she raised somber eyes in his direction. “Have you heard from Ross?” she asked softly.

“The last I heard he was doing well enough,” Joshua said, watching her face very carefully. Marjorie was well schooled in shielding her emotions, but there was something about the furrow over her brow, the turn of her mouth, that made him realize the attachment Ross had developed for her was not necessarily one sided.

He stayed to chat for a few moments more before he announced he had to leave. Marjorie walked him to the front door and helped him on with his greatcoat. “Please, Joshua,” she said, touching his arm.

He blinked down at her. “Yes, my dear?”

She smiled sadly. “Please extend my very best wishes to Ross the next time you write to him.”

Joshua nodded and kissed her on the cheek. “Safe travels to you, my dear.”

Joshua brooded on the ride back to Nampara. He’d known the boy was besotted by Marjorie, and who could blame him: she was an extraordinary woman. She was a distraction for the boy. A distraction that could keep him from doing what the boy must do: marry a woman who would bring him stature within the community and bear him an heir. A continued liaison or – God forbid – marriage to Marjorie would have been scandalous on the one hand and, given her inability to bear children, would have been disastrous.

Because even if Ross had formed an attachment to Elizabeth Chynoweth, and as happy as Joshua was about the prospect of having the young girl bring a sense of refinement and gentility to the Nampara Poldarks, he knew the kind of chit she was. Highborn ladies like Elizabeth Chynoweth weren’t the kind of earthy, open and loving women men like him and his son required. He recognized that the qualities he’d admired about his son’s intended were the same qualities that would, eventually, drive him from his home to seek the gentle attentions of feminine comforts elsewhere. Which would lead him back to Marjorie.

Now that he knew she’d developed feelings for Ross in turn, she not only presented a danger to Ross, but to herself as well. What if Ross were to thumb his nose at society and marry Marjorie? Flout convention and sire no heir for Nampara. Eventually, Marjorie’s beauty would fade and she would become old and colorless as so many women did as they aged. Ross could not be trusted to remain faithful to her, when younger, more beautiful and lithesome women were available. It’s what he himself would do, and had done. Ross was his son, after all.

He walked into the library the moment he arrived at Namara, pulled out a piece of parchment and dipped his quill to begin: 

> Dear Ross,
> 
> I hope this letter finds you safe and well and soon to return to your home. Work at the mine continues apace and our spring plantings appear promising.
> 
> You will forgive me the brevity of this missive, but I wanted to ensure you received this news as soon as possible. You will recall, of course, Mistress Marjorie Tregrouse from the days before you left for America. I had occasion to see her in town just two weeks ago where she asked me to extend her best wishes for your safe return. It is, however, my sad duty to report she was killed in a riding accident whilst visiting acquaintances in Derbyshire a week ago.
> 
> She will remain in our prayers. Stay safe, son. I remain ever faithfully yours,
> 
> Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: Two things, really. First, the ribbon around the thigh thing was lovingly borrowed from the Starz original series "Spartacus", episode one. The scene where that happens still makes me bite my bottom lip.
> 
> Second? There will be an epilogue.


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twenty years later and a chance encounter in London...
> 
> Prompted from a conversation started by @osmarinamo on tumblr: This morning I was enjoying @rainpuddle13’s fanfic Convergence and got to thinking: how did Ross become so sexually knowledgeable? Would love someone to write about Ross’ own growth as a sexual being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely @rainpuddle13 herself. Many thanks to @genie1960, @rainpuddle13, @vickysnest, @alicebhatt,@mayyourbeardnevergrowthin, @shareinanadventure, @thistle-brook,@audleystreet, @shiparker, @annaania01, @goodgirlwhoshopeful. Their participation in the conversation helped me conceive of the storyline.
> 
> There are light spoilers for the books in this chapter, but nothing that could potentially blow your minds. The event where this chapter starts is in the book The Angry Tide, the seventh of the series. I've also taken some liberties with costume colors, and borrowed some dialogue from the show...because I can. :-) Enjoy!

24 September 1799  
Portland Place  
London

Marjorie surveyed the crush filling the reception at Mrs Tracey’s on Portland Place and smiled. It appeared to be a lively crowd, one that suited her mood rather perfectly. She’d enjoyed the life she’d led in the twenty years since arriving in London and had been looking forward to this gathering for weeks.

The years had been very kind to Marjorie. Trim and petite, her black hair sporting a dramatic streak of white, she was often mistaken for a woman ten years her junior despite being in her middle fifties. Tonight was no exception, and she’d been the welcome recipient of several nods of male appreciation as she walked along the balcony in a dress of rich sapphire blue silk. The styles so popular in London these days allowed her to present some of her best features at their finest. The deep scoop neckline and snug band at the top of her empire waistline emphasize the graceful arch of her throat and lush curve of her bust, the short sleeves the firmness of her arms.

The years had also given her time to think about the affair she’d had with the young man who had captured her heart and mind in 1779. The memories had been painful at first but now had the power to fill her with a warm glow of gratitude for having experienced it. She’d had several lovers during the intervening years, but had been unattached for several months and was interested in remedying the situation.

She’d just been introduced to one of these new male acquaintances and was beginning to discover they shared _very_ common interests when she heard a man with a rich tenor voice announce the arrival of two new guests.

“Captain and Mrs Poldark!”

Her heart skipped a beat, then resounded – hard – within her chest. She cast a sidelong glance over the balcony railing to the entry way below and saw the tall figure of the man she’d once nearly lost her heart to gliding in, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit of the deepest brown velvet before shifting her gaze to the woman on his arm. Her hair was the color of sunset and fire, artfully arranged atop her head in a style that brought back memories of her days in Cornwall. She was beautifully dressed in a brilliant robin’s egg blue silk gown. Marjorie could not see their faces, but from the couple’s physical closeness and the way he tilted his head towards hers she could discern a great affection between them. She tactfully excused herself from the conversation with a promise to return and made her way along the railing to see if she could get a better look.

Since her departure from Cornwall, she’d followed news of Ross’s career and exploits at a distance, curious to keep abreast of the man he’d grown to become. She’d been so very worried when he had been presumed dead only to have that sadness turn to joy when the error was discovered. She was happy for the successes of the mine, dismayed to learn of his imprisonment pending the shipwrecking trial in 1790 and the sudden surprise of his election as a Member of Parliament for the district. She’d been most intrigued in his marriage to his kitchen maid, Demelza. She’d had a very good laugh over the news when it had arrived to her in a letter from Mrs Teague:

> “… in all my years, I never would have guessed that a member of the Poldark family, one of the oldest families in all of Cornwall, would ever stoop so low as to marry his kitchen wench! Although, if any one of them were to do something as dishonorable as this it would be Joshua’s whelp to do it. Several months ago, we had occasion to call on the young man only to see the hussy putting on airs. Not long after, Ruth saw her riding to church, bold as brass, all fit up in a scarlet cloak. Behavior like this was bad enough to tarnish the family name, but to make matters worse by marrying the trull? The entire situation is scandalous…”

_Oh, Joshua,_ she’d thought ironically to herself as she dabbed tears from her eyes, _he found a scullery maid after all._

She’d wondered what Ross would do after learning of his intended’s decision to marry his cousin. She remembered how beautiful Elizabeth Chynoweth had been, and probably still was for that matter, and how much he’d loved her. Would he challenge Francis and drag her off with him? Or would he do the noble thing, concede defeat and spend the rest of his life brooding? She felt she knew him well enough to know he would go with the latter, only after assessing whether or not he would be able to provide the kind of life a young lady of Elizabeth’s breeding demanded. And life on a working farm as a poor squire’s wife was not what Miss Chynoweth been born and bred for.

So, who was Mrs Poldark, this kitchen maid turned lady? Despite the humor Mrs Teague’s letter had initially caused her to arch an ironic eyebrow at her friend’s memory, she did wonder about the suitability of this woman, to be mistress of an estate, small it may be. And would she be willing to be his partner in all things, share his passions and the sometimes-cruel lessons life tended to mete out to test its resilience? She had heard the Poldarks lost their first daughter to the morbid sore throat in 1790, but had gone on to have two other children in the years that followed. Clearly, that was cause enough to believe they’d shared a happy intimate life. Marjorie mused as she continued her walk around the balcony railing, her eyes trailing the flame-bright head as it made its way through the crowd. She noticed the couple paused as a tall woman with honey blonde hair and a man Marjorie presumed to be her husband, a thin yet handsome man with sandy blonde hair warmly greeted them. Marjorie was able to get her first good look at the Poldarks.

She warmed with memory at the full mane of curling, black hair, the expressive brows and intense eyes. Age had made his features stronger, more handsome and distinguished than she’d ever imagined them to be. He’d remained lean, muscular and graceful, despite a musket ball injury to his ankle sustained in the war. The main thing she’d noticed – not surprisingly – was the dramatic scar running the length of his left cheek, which gave him a rakish air.

Yes. Everything she’d imagined he would be and more.

He threw his head back and laughed suddenly and she was dazzled by the change it brought to his face. It was as if the years slid back in time and he held the brightness of youth in his expression. His wife flickered a glance at him and beamed. It was at this moment she carefully studied his wife.

She was tall and slender, her figure perfectly suited for the empire style so popular. Wide eyes of a bluish green sparkled up at her husband, with delicately arched brows, a straight nose, high cheek bones and a wide, dazzling smile she flashed to all as she excitedly bounced on her toes to look around the room.

Marjorie looked for the closest staircase to take her down to the main floor. She had to meet Mrs Poldark.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ross frowned, being jostled for what felt like the hundredth time. The crowd at the reception was more than he thought he could tolerate for more than an hour or two. However, he decided he would suffer through until dawn, just to catch sight of the joy expressed on Demelza’s face as she took in the sights and sounds of the festivities surrounding them. The events of the last nine years had sorely tested them; left them scarred and, if he were honest with himself, worried for their future. This trip to London was one in a series of steps he hoped would take them back to where they had been so early in their marriage. Thusfar, it had been magical. He fully intended on keeping it that way.

 _God, she’s beautiful_ , he thought to himself. She was radiant, a bright and vibrant light that kept him, bound him to her with her delight and passion. They’d been intimate more over the course of the last several days than they had been over the past year, although his frequent absences from Nampara hadn’t helped in that regard. And although he was surrounded by temptation whenever he was in London, he found great and profound satisfaction in returning home to Demelza’s arms.

 _Anticipation,_ he thought and smiled, glancing at the nape of her neck and the small pearl buttons at the top of neckline of her new gown, mere inches below. He’d been worried when he first saw her tonight, the lightness of the fabric and amount of skin exposed making him first wonder if she’d forgotten the dress and only wore the shift! But he’d come to appreciate it more and more as the evening wore on. Anticipation.

He wondered if she’d chosen the color of the material on purpose, it being so reminiscent of the blue satin gown she’d worn the first night they’d become lovers. Perhaps that was why he wished to be back at their accommodations in The Strand, fingers flicking the buttons open as he’d once done with the laces down that other blue gown. His loins tightened, and he took a deep breath to try to redirect his thoughts before he embarrassed himself.

A voice came unbidden into his head: _“I find the removal of clothing to be one of the loveliest forms of foreplay one can have in their repertoire.”_ He stiffened. It had been some time since he’d thought of Marjorie Trengrouse and the lessons she’d taught him before he left for America over twenty years ago. He’d been devastated to learn of her death so soon after they had parted. He’d been so wrapped up in his pursuit of Elizabeth in the end that he hadn’t kept his word to return to say goodbye. He was, however, grateful he’d had the chance to apologize for his behavior that night he suggested Marjorie go to America with him. She’d, of course, been absolutely right about the ridiculousness of his plan and had been looking out for him, as she always had. He’d been sad that the world was without her warmth, passion and spirit and remained so, to this day.

“Ross? Is everything all right?” Demelza asked, rousting him from his thoughts of black hair and sky-blue eyes.

He looked down into his wife’s wide, sea-green gaze, her brows slightly furrowed, and smiled. “Yes, my love, I am fine.”

“You seemed miles away,” she said, placing her hand on his arm and drawing him nearer.

“Only for a moment,” he admitted, his chest feeling tight and unsettled. He bent, his lips brushing her ear. “To return back by you, always.”

She colored prettily and smiled. “I am going to go to the ladies lounge for a moment,” she said, fiddling with the feather that she’d tucked into her hair. “I won’t be a moment. Where shall I meet you?”

“I will await you by that tapestry,” he said, then placed a hand low along her back. She peered up at him through her lashes. “You look beautiful tonight.”

She beamed and the tightness in his chest eased. “Thank you, dear Ross.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Demelza stepped into the ladies lounge, grateful for a few moments of quiet from the din outside. Granted, she was completely captivated by everything she’d seen thus far throughout their trip, from the places, the people, the sights and sounds of the city. And as excited as she had been about coming to the reception, her old insecurities were never far from the surface whenever she had to mix with the gentry, even twelve years after Ross made her his wife. Spending a little time in here would help her settle the nerves that had developed the moment Caroline had mentioned the Warleggans had been invited to the gathering as well.

She sipped some wine and began to adjust the feather she’d added to her hair at the last moment when the door opened and a woman entered the room, their eyes meeting in the mirror. She smiled at the woman, happy to receive a dimpled smile in return. Demelza was struck by the other woman’s petite grace, the striking white streak running through the black hair, beautifully dressed, but with a single curl fallen out of place.

“I beg your pardon,” the woman said softly. Demelza was struck by the husky alto and wondered if she might sing, the tone was so lovely. “I seem to have lost a pin. You wouldn’t by any chance happen to have a spare?”

“Oh, of course,” Demelza said happily, reaching into the small purse she had tied to her wrist. She found one and extended it to her. “I always try to carry extra as it can be a challenge to contain my own.”

“You have beautiful hair,” the woman said admiringly, accepting the pin. “All of the colors of the season.”

Demelza blushed. “Thank you, Mistress…?” she asked.

The woman extended her hand. “Marjorie Trengrouse, but please call me Marjorie, Mistress…”

“Demelza Poldark,” she said. “Please call me Demelza. It is a pleasure meeting you.”

“Likewise, my dear,” Marjorie said, looking away momentarily to re-pin her hair. “I have not seen you in London before. It is your first visit?”

“Oh, yes,” Demelza said, smiling. “My husband has been coming to London for several months now, and I was able to join him this time.”

“Your husband is Captain Ross Poldark, correct?” Marjorie asked politely. “Member of Parliament, yes?”

Demelza nodded, feeling pride swell in her heart. “Yes, he is, for Sawle.”

“Yes,” Marjorie said, tapping her fan on her cheek. “I lived in the district for a number of years before moving to London over twenty years ago. I remember the Poldark families, of Trenwith and Nampara.”

Demelza beamed. “Oh, you must come and be re-acquainted with my husband,” she said. “I would love to hear stories of what he was like as a boy.” She noticed two patches of color appearing on the woman’s fair skin and was puzzled.

“My apologies, I am overwarm on occasion,” Marjorie said, opening her fan, fluttering the air around them and filling the room with the scent of lilies. “That would be delightful, however I am already late for another engagement I am expected to attend this evening.” She paused, smiled and Demelza found herself enchanted by it. “Perhaps I may call upon you and your husband during your stay in town?”

Demelza nodded. “I should like that very much, Marjorie. I’m sorry, I don’t have a calling card to give you. Our lodgings are temporary. We are on the Strand.”

Marjorie slipped a card from her bag. “Please send a note around as to a good time to call.” She touched Demelza on the arm. “I shall look forward to hearing from you, my dear.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marjorie smiled as the door of the ladies lounge clicked shut behind her. He had quite done well.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ross stood by the tapestry, his eyes casting about for his wife’s shining hair when he finally caught sight of her, the robin’s egg blue feather dancing amidst the fiery strands of her hair. He had a passing thought that he looked forward to searching for the hairpins that held the locks captive, his brow furrowing slightly when he pictured his fingers searching through raven-black strands. He shook his head, annoyed with himself. It was the second time in so many moments that memories of Marjorie had crept back into his head and it did not please him to have them do so tonight. Not when things between he and Demelza had just begun to heal.

His dark thoughts fled as his wife’s hand slipped into the crook of his arm, her soft breast pressing against his upper arm. “Hello, my dear,” he said warmly, brushing her temple with his lips. He looked down at her hair. “I see the recalcitrant feather has been mastered.”

She looked at him. “What is recalcitrant?”

He laughed softly, leaning close to her ear. “Unruly. Disobedient. Stubborn.”

She giggled and turned pink. “Are you certain you aren’t referring to me, Ross?”

“Sometimes,” he breathed.

Her blush deepened. “Oh, Ross.”

He warmed, the conversation taking on a decidedly intimate turn and making him harden. Anticipation. “I was beginning to worry after you, my dear.”

“I am sorry, Ross,” she said, apologetically. “I had a lovely conversation with a woman and time slipped by.” She cocked her head. “She said she’d known you when you were a boy. Her name is Marjorie Trengrouse.” A wave of shock, ice-cold and powerful, ran through his body, making him jolt hard enough for Demelza to clasp his arm to keep him steady. She looked up at him, her eyes worried. “Ross, what’s wrong? You are as white as a sheet.”

“That’s not possible,” he rasped, his stomach lurching.

“What do you mean it’s not possible?” she asked. “I left her not more than ten minutes ago.”

“She’s dead,” he said, hoarsely, unseeing. He remembered the parchment he’d held in his hand, a letter from his father. _“It is, however, my sad duty to report she was killed in a riding accident whilst visiting acquaintances in Derbyshire a week ago.”_ He closed his eyes and damned the man to hell and back for what must have been the hundredth time.

The logic of the situation unfolded itself before him like an ornate napkin. Of course. The bastard figured he’d be just like him: chasing down women all over the county. But he’d never have done that to Eliz… He paused, gritting his teeth. _No,_ he thought to himself, _be logical_. He unraveled the web further, thinking of the relationship his late cousin Francis had had with Elizabeth. Francis, despite having won Elizabeth’s hand in marriage, began an affair with a local whore named Margaret. It had begun after Geoffrey Charles was born, a son and heir to the Trenwith Poldark estate.

If Ross and Elizabeth had married… if she’d given him a son… would she have done the same to him as she had to Francis? It was entirely possible, _probable_ , in point of fact. And Ross knew he would have sought out Marjorie without a second thought.

Anger coursed through him, leaving him impotent with rage towards a long-dead father who manipulated even from the grave. He knew he needed to speak with Marjorie, to find out what she might know about the reason his father would go to such lengths to put her beyond reach.

A hand squeezed his arm and he whirled to face an ashen-faced Demelza staring up at him. “Ross?” she whispered, “I’ve been calling your name forever. Whatever is the matter, my lover?”

Her endearment was a salve and he closed his eyes as the adrenaline his anger had stirred in him left him shaken. “Demelza, dear heart, I am sorry.” He breathed and swallowed. “I was told she had died.”

Compassion and love filled her eyes. “That’s horrible, Ross. By whom?”

He shook his head, blotting out the face of Joshua from his mind. “It’s not important right now, dear,” he said. “Can you tell me where she might have gone?”

“She told me she was attending another event and was running late, so I imagine she’s already gone.” He was already moving in the direction of the cloak room, Demelza’s hand clasped in his own. He powered his way through the crush, their pace slow in order for her to keep up.

They arrived in time to see her out on the street, the coach door closing, the driver pulling forward. Their eyes met – Ross, Demelza and Marjorie – and she was gone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The following day, Marjorie stepped out of the coach and looked up at the modest home in front of her. She hadn’t known it was possible to feel so unnerved in her life. What had she seen in his eyes last night? Shock? Anger? Confusion? She’d most assuredly seen confusion in his wife’s eyes. Did she know? Apprehension filled her chest and she nearly turned to walk away. However, she had to know what had occurred to make his reaction to seeing her so pronounced. She knocked on the door.

She was led to a comfortable parlour and had only sat down when she heard footsteps approaching. She looked up to see Ross and Demelza standing in the doorway. Gone were the trappings of formal attire, replaced by the more simple garments of Cornwall, but failed to detract from the couple’s absolute rightness for one another. She could see the wild, earthy beauty that gave Demelza a desirability that made Marjorie wonder if she’d had a chance to tap into its fullest potential. Ross, on the other hand, had come into his own, just as she’d predicted he would. His eyes were hooded, watchful as they entered the room.

She rose to greet them and executed a perfect curtsey and was met with bows and curtseys in turn. “Thank you for inviting me to your home.” She looked at Ross. “It has been many years, Ross. You are looking very well.”

“As are you, Marjorie,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.

Demelza looked up at him and touched his arm. “Do you wish to be alone, Ross?”

He shook his head, placed his hand over hers and Marjorie’s heart leapt for them. He motioned for the women to sit, joining Demelza on the couch across from Marjorie’s chair. “First of all, I want to apologize for the strangeness of last night’s encounter, Marjorie,” he said firmly.

She nodded slowly. “I admit I was startled to see you both standing in the entrance to the reception.” She paused, directing her gaze at Ross. “It was as if you were accusing me of something, Ross.”

He sighed. “It was not an accusation, Marjorie. It was the shock of seeing you alive.”

Marjorie blinked twice in rapid succession and paled. “Alive?” she said. “You thought I was dead?”

He nodded sadly. “My father sent me a letter.”

Demelza look at the both of them and stood. “I am going to get the tea.” Ross looked at her, imploring her to stay with only his eyes. Demelza shook her head and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I will be back in a moment.” She smiled at Marjorie and left the room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marjorie turned to face Ross, her eyes filled with hurt and confusion. “I simply don’t understand, Ross.”

“I think I do.” He rubbed his eyes, scratchy from lack of sleep from the night before. He laid out the web of Joshua Poldark’s lies and manipulations he’d had the chance to sort through as he and Demelza made their way back home after the reception. He watched her face as he spoke, and answered questions she had.

In the end, she nodded. “I think I may be able to shed some light on why he may decided to tell you I’d died.” She looked at Ross. “I think I fell a little in love with you, Ross. You remember I warned you after that first night that continuing to see one another could bring about an attachment. Now I know you had formed one for me,” she said, eyes mischievous.

Ross nodded and smiled ruefully. “We can safely say that is very true, given my request to have you come with me to America.”

She laughed and drew in a shaky breath. “Well, I didn’t realize it at the time, but I’d formed one for you as well. One that made me question my own stated resolve more than once.” She looked at him. “If you’d returned and Elizabeth was no longer an option…if you’d come to me and asked me to be with you, I don’t know if I would have been able to say no.” She paused. “Your father knew about it. I could see it in his eyes the last time I saw him, to tell him of my leaving the district and wishing you the best.”

Ross swallowed, the ramifications of her words spinning in his head. If she’d still been in the district – hell, if she’d been anywhere in England – he would have run to her after his heartbreak at Trenwith, the near destruction of his home and lands.

He thought of his father, weighing the options he’d had before him. He wondered what he would have done if their positions were reversed, and he were the father. Some of the anger Ross had held in his heart since learning the news was tempered. He still resented being manipulated, and in such an emotionally devastating way, but he saw the twisted logic of it.

“I am beginning understand his reasoning, as much as it pains me to say that.” He looked at Marjorie, her face ashen but lovely. To know she’d been as affected by him as he had been by her made him smile. “I probably _would_ have come to find you after Elizabeth.” he admitted.

“Bold and reckless, two words to aptly describe you then, Ross,” she said with a wistful smile.

He grinned. “Demelza would tell you there is still a reckless streak that runs through me, from time to time.” He paused. “But you were right, Marjorie. If I had come to you, I never would have reopened the mine. All of the people who work there would have gone hungry without the work. More importantly, I never would have met Demelza, I never would have loved a woman so much I cannot comprehend breathing without her. I never experienced the joys and sorrows of fatherhood.” He leaned closer, took her hand. “And I thank you for it. I am so very glad you are alive, Marjorie. I hope you know that.”

She nodded and gave his hand a squeeze. “I do, Ross. You're welcome, my dear.”

He released her hand and sat back, the tension that had been in the room dissipating. “Have you been happy?” he asked.

She cocked her head, thinking. “I would have to say I have.”

He arched a brow. “You never remarried?”

She laughed. “Why would I do that, Ross? I would chafe under the strictures of a marriage. I have a comfortable home, enough money to support me. I’ve made friends here in London, elsewhere here in England and France.” She paused, offering him a half smile. “And have been content with my companions.”

He sighed, remembering. As did she. “I thought of you often,” he said softly. “During the early days of my fighting in America. Wishing I’d had a chance to say goodbye.”

“We did, Ross,” she added, soberly. “The kind of goodbye we needed to have. No more, no less. I remember our acquaintance with great fondness, Ross. I always will.”

He felt his face heat. “I as well, Marjorie.” He looked at her. “You once wished that…”

She held up a hand. “I wished for you _a companion_ who would appreciate your heart, courage and passions and respond to them in kind,” she said, delicately editing her words. He marveled at her memory, for he’d memorized them as well. “I observed you and your wife at the reception last night.”

“Your conclusion?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“It is very clear to see she is your match, Ross,” Marjorie said, warmly. “She is radiant, and it is clear she loves you very much.”

His heart felt full. “She is the love of my life.”

Marjorie smiled brilliantly. Demelza returned to the room, carrying a tray with tea and biscuits and the three of them spent the couple of hours talking of the everyday experiences of life. Of the Poldark children, of Julia, their late, beloved daughter, and Jeremy and Clowance, of Marjorie’s volunteer work, life in London and Ross’s experiences in Parliament.

At length, Marjorie set her teacup down and smiled brightly at the two of them. “I feel as though we could spend several more hours talking but I’m afraid I must leave.”

Ross rose from the couch and offered his left hand to Marjorie, his right to Demelza. He smiled to himself as he felt the warmth and comfort each woman had brought to his life.

Demelza stepped forward and clasped Marjorie’s hand in hers. “Thank you for coming to see us.” She gave the hand a squeeze. Eyes of sea and sky met and held for a moment. “Thank you.”

Ross watched Marjorie blink in response and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “I’ll walk you out, Marjorie.” He kissed Demelza gently then offered Marjorie his arm and walked her to the foyer. He draped Marjorie’s cloak around her shoulders. _Lilies and Marjorie,_ he thought to himself.

She turned to him. “She knows?”

He nodded. “I told her last night. I wasn’t certain I wanted to, but in the end I felt she had a right to know.” He paused, looking at her lovely face, the few lines adding character and grace to this woman who had taught him so much. “No shame.”

She beamed. “No shame.” She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his. “I wish you every happiness, always, dear sir.”

He took her hand and kissed her wrist. “And you the same, mistress mine.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this piece has been a revelation to me, has provided me opportunities to push my creativity in directions I've only dabbled in before. This is the first time I've ever created an original character for a fan fic and I'd always worried I would not do a good job of it. I have to say I love Mistress Marjorie Trengrouse to pieces and hope you have, too. 
> 
> I do have the conversation Ross and Demelza have after the party drafted, but I think that will be a special piece I'll share on Tumblr. Click [here to read it](http://mmmuses.tumblr.com/post/140154483973/cottage-by-the-copse-mmmuse-poldark-tv-2015).
> 
> My deepest thanks and appreciation to all of you who have offered your kudos, comments and feedback and to @rainpuddle for her support with this project and for writing [Convergence](http://archiveofourown.org/series/284805). Finally, I realized I never shared the song that inspired several of the chapter titles. It's [Wrapped Around Your Finger, by The Police. ](https://youtu.be/svWINSRhQU0)
> 
> Thank you.


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